On the Avenue

by Antonio Pagliarulo

  “The filler of this jacket is polyester,” she said. “Black polyester.”

  “That's crazy!” Jeremy blurted out. Eyes wide, he looked desperately at Park. “I paid eight hundred dollars for that jacket—there's no way the lining is man-made. I didn't do it. Please believe me. This guy”—he pointed at Mullen—“is just trying to set me up.”

  Lex remained silent. Madison and Park followed suit.

  “There's no reason to get so worked up, Mr. Bleu,” Mullen told him. “I'm just trying to figure things out.” With a smirk, he bunched the jacket in his big hands and slung it over his arm. As he did so, something tumbled from one of the pockets and hit the floor with a ping.

  It landed directly between Park's slippered feet.

  Lex watched as Park bent down and picked up what had fallen. Then she watched as Park's eyes widened and lips parted.

  “What?” Madison said. “What is it?”

  Park raised her hand; pinched between her thumb and forefinger was something thick and silvery. “This is a key to our penthouse,” she whispered. Her wounded gaze found Jeremy. “And it was in your jacket.”

  “I didn't do it!” Jeremy cried. “And that's not mine. I swear—it wasn't me!”

  Detective Mullen reached for the handcuffs on his belt.

  16

  Run, West, Run!

  Sporting his usual baseball cap and Prada sunglasses, Theo stood just inside Central Park, a few feet from the Seventy-second Street entrance. He had a clear view of Fifth Avenue. More specifically, he had a clear view of the building where Madison, Park, and Lex lived. And as his eyes took in the unfolding scene, he kept repeating the mantra that comprised his whole freakin' life.

  Stay cool. Don't call attention to yourself.

  The front of the apartment building was flashing with lights—police cars parked one after another, two ambulances, a fire truck, three unmarked vehicles sporting sirens in their windshields. The corners that encompassed the building were sealed off. Traffic had ground to a halt, and now the crowd of curious onlookers was thickening.

  Theo couldn't quite believe his eyes. He knew he should have felt fear in his blood, but he was actually experiencing a strange sort of calm, something akin to peace. It felt a lot like the euphoria that accompanied an Ecstasy high. He was floating, and yet his heart was beating quickly. He was seeing the chaos erupt just across the street, and yet the reality of it wasn't registering. If there had been strobe lights above him and a dance floor beneath his feet, everything would have made perfect sense. But that wasn't the case. Nothing about the moment was enjoyable.

  He slipped his hands into the pockets of his Zegna coat and unfolded the newspaper tucked beneath his arm. He had read the main stories. He had expected the front-page headlines and the first whisperings of a major scandal. But in truth, he was surprised the scandal hadn't broken completely. That was what he had prepared himself for. All night long he had lain awake in bed, imagining his own face plastered across the pages beside Madison's. And yet, here he was, as inconspicuous as any dogwalking passerby.

  Could it be that no one had discovered the truth yet?

  The park was growing more crowded by the minute. It was a bright sunny morning, the air fragrant with spring, and the Manhattan fitness buffs were on the streets for their customary three-mile jogs. The second they hit Fifth Avenue, however, they all stopped to stare at the crazy scene unfolding in front of the building. It resembled something straight out of a movie.

  Theo kept casting sidelong glances to make sure no one was staring at him. The last thing he wanted was to be noticed. And eventually, someone would notice him. The shameless curiosity of the general public never ceased to amaze him. No matter where he was or what he was doing, people asked him bluntly about his family's corporate empire and which new business deals were on the horizon. They asked him about the publishing division West International owned, about the two buildings his father, Richard, had recently purchased on the Hudson River, and whether the Wests would be erecting those long-awaited high-rise luxury condos. And sometimes they even asked him personal questions—such as how it felt being in the same school with the Hamilton sisters and knowing that the Hamilton empire was always threatening to bust up West International in a hostile takeover. To that, Theo rarely replied politely.

  Right now, though, he was calm. The baseball cap and sunglasses disguise had worked well for him in the past, and he felt confident that no one had seen him making his way across town in the chill blue of dawn. He had walked the long distance from his fam-ily's town house on West End Avenue. All the while, he'd reviewed the details of his plan, going over every last word, every last action. It was necessary. The truth would have to come out. Last night, at the gala, he thought he'd done the right thing with regard to Zahara Bell. Now he knew it had been a stupid move. As always, his rage had gotten the best of him and his big mouth had taken over. And although he had snuck beneath the radar unseen, he was certain the truth would be revealed soon.

  He thought back to the night before, to the fight that had erupted between him and Annabelle. Defending Madison—even talking about her—had been wrong and stupid, but his emotions had won out. Feelings of a romantic nature, coupled with a big mouth, didn't mix well. Seeing Madison in such a delicate state had grated against his heart. Standing so close to her in that buzzing and crowded corridor, surrounded by cops and a brewing scandal, he had yearned to throw his arms around her, to whisper sweet words in her ear. She'd wanted that too. He had seen the fire in her eyes. But he'd been smart and kept his emotions in check. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done, especially with his nerves wound so tight.

  Where were you, Theo? What did you do?

  Annabelle's voice echoed in his head. He forced it away. He didn't want to think about those awful ten minutes in question, when his heart had raced and his blood had run cold. That wasn't any of Annabelle's business. And besides, she wouldn't understand. Only Madison would understand.

  Why can't you tell me where you were, Theo? What are you hiding?

  The answer to that question actually made him chuckle. A lot, he thought. A whole lot.

  He wondered if the heat was showing in his cheeks right now. The plan he had pieced together only a few hours ago wasn't going to work. He realized that now. Coming over here had been a mistake, a notion motivated by fantasy. But how else was he supposed to get to Madison? How else was he supposed to explain this whole terrible mess?

  Suddenly, a chubby woman in shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt came jogging through the crowd. She stopped when she saw the police cars and the sirens, the lights illuminating Fifth Avenue like a stage. “It's all over the news,” she remarked to the other onlookers. “There's been a murder in that building, and the Hamilton triplets are supposedly tied to this one too!”

  Whispers fluttered on the air.

  The calm feeling left Theo's body. He turned around and pushed his way through the crowd, heading back across Central Park to the West Side. When he rounded the first bend of shadowy trees, he broke into a run.

  17

  A Clue in the Closet?

  Through the long hours of the afternoon, reporters gathered on the sidewalk in front of 974 Fifth Avenue. The news of Chicky Marsala's murder had swept across the airwaves like wildfire, compounding an already sensational scandal. The day only got worse when it was released to the public that Jeremy Bleu had been taken into police custody for questioning.

  Lex couldn't remember a single instance in her life when so many media people were gathered in one spot. Even from way up in the penthouse, she could see the stretch of Fifth Avenue ablaze with lights. The building's security staff had been beefed up, and any residents who wanted to leave had to do so with an escort. One murder in the lobby was enough, thank you very much. After coming back upstairs with Madison and Park, Lex had finally found the time to peruse all of the day's newspapers. The headlines weren't as lurid as any of them had expected. It was clear from the tone of the
articles that no one really thought they were guilty of committing any crimes, but ultimately, that didn't matter. The Hamilton name—and the billions of dollars attached to it—was being dragged through a big pile of horseshit.

  Lex felt particularly odd when she saw the countless mentions of her Triple Threat line. It was gratifying. It was exhilarating. But it was also horrifying. She didn't want her designs revealed to the world this way. She had worked hard, and now the global fashion enterprise she had envisioned was synonymous with dead people. Where was the glamour in that? Where was the bright side in any of it? She couldn't help but wonder if she and Madison and Park would ever recover from this mess. It wasn't merely a scandal of the fleeting kind. It was a damn saga designed to sabotage them.

  Now Lex was standing at her bedroom window, hundreds of thoughts churning in her brain. She stared out at the purple sky. Night was falling slowly over the city, but the colors of twilight were lost in the glare rising up from the street. She knew the reporters and photographers and news crews wouldn't be leaving any time soon. Several hours ago, Madison had disconnected the phones in the living and dining rooms because of the sheer volume of calls flooding the apartment. No, she and her sisters didn't know why Zahara Bell had been murdered. No, they didn't have any connection to the dead photographer named Chicky Marsala. On and on it went, without a moment of quiet. Lex felt like climbing the walls. Her restlessness was too strong to contain. She wanted to go and comfort Park, but both she and Madison knew that Park dealt with difficulty on her own. Park didn't want a shoulder to cry on.

  Adding insult to injury was the strange story that was also being covered on the evening news. In the last twenty-four hours, retailers all over Fifth Avenue had reported shockingly low sales and almost no customers. It was a mystery, a dark phenomenon. Nobody understood what was happening—except Park. She knew the legend of the Avenue diamond was taking hold. Park took the whole thing very seriously; it depressed her more than anything else, even more than what had happened this morning. And despite the blood on Jeremy's hands and the key in his pocket, Park had yet to say that she thought him guilty of two murders.

  For the record, Lex wasn't sure she believed Jeremy Bleu was guilty either. Even in the midst of the chaos earlier today, she'd caught the glimpses Jeremy had thrown at Park, and they were nothing short of steamy. He was hot for her. So if he hadn't killed Zahara Bell or Chicky Marsala, he had been framed. Lex believed that Jeremy's scarf could have fallen off his shoulders at some point during the gala. But it clearly didn't matter what she thought. Park hadn't had much choice but to reveal that bit of information to Detective Mullen, and now it would be used against Jeremy with crushing weight.

  But if Jeremy hadn't murdered Zahara Bell, who had? Lex reviewed the facts in her head, listing them one by one. The killer was definitely a man. The killer was someone who had been at the gala last night. The killer had broken into this penthouse and raided her closet at some point in the recent past. And the killer had struck again this morning, because the crimes were obviously connected.

  So what does that explain?

  Well, nothing. No one would understand a single thing until they all knew why Zahara Bell had been killed. Robbery? That didn't make sense. Why go to the trouble of using the Triple Threat cocktail dress just to steal the diamond?

  Sighing, Lex turned around and brightened the track lights in the bedroom. She pulled the blinds closed, protecting herself from helicopters with telephoto-lens cameras. The last thing she wanted was her private sanctuary revealed to the world. The bedroom was, of course, her favorite part of the penthouse. She had designed it herself, the light pink walls accentuating the sky blue color of the ceiling. Her canopy bed was fluffed with snow white pillows. The marble bureau held several of her favorite photographs: Lex with John Galliano, Lex with Betsey Johnson, Lex with Alexander McQueen, Lex with Sarah Jessica, Lex with Angelina, Lex with Princes William and Harry. She would have a lot of explaining to do next month at the various fall fashion shows. She couldn't imagine what people would be saying. One of her best pieces and it had to go and end up on a dead woman. Thinking back on it now, Lex was comforted slightly by the fact that Zahara Bell's thin body had, in fact, looked good on the floor of the coatroom. The cocktail dress should have been hiked up a little higher for cleavage purposes, but Zahara's poor boobs would never bounce again.

  Lex walked into the very center of the room and faced her closet doors. They were closed. She always left them closed. She hadn't wanted to face them last night or this morning. But now it was absolutely necessary. For the first time, she regretted not getting a lock and key for them as Park had suggested several months ago. Maybe that would have stopped whoever had broken in from actually stealing the dress. She tried to imagine just how it had happened. In her mind's eye she pictured a masked figure slipping in through the front while they were all out, tiptoeing into her room, and quietly opening the closet doors. She saw gloved hands reaching past the hangers that held her everyday designer clothes. She saw long fingers curling around the black garment bag emblazoned with the Triple Threat emblem. And then the getaway: the swift padding of feet across the carpeted floor as the thief rushed out. At the very least, she hoped the bastard hadn't come in here wearing poorly fitting leather gloves, an acrylic ski mask, and sneakers.

  Eww.

  She gritted her teeth, utterly perturbed. She glanced at the small circular desk at the far end of the room, where her personal datebook sat open on its spine. She didn't have to flip through it to know that the past few weeks had been inordinately busy. In addition to classes and the usual social engagements, she had visited the Badescu salon several times for facials and body wraps. She'd flown to Milan last month to select fabrics for several evening gowns she had designed. And then there'd been the impromptu trip to Los Angeles when Hamilton Holdings completed its hostile takeover of that silly global real estate company. The penthouse had been practically empty for weeks. And with Lupe coming and going whenever she pleased, the thief could've even uncorked a bottle of champagne and taken a dunk in her very own Jacuzzi, for God's sake!

  She tried to remember the last time she'd actually seen that particular cocktail dress, but her memories were fuzzy. On her daily trips to and from her closet, she didn't stop and count the articles of clothing hanging everywhere. That would take at least three hours—with a personal assistant.

  She mustered all her strength and marched toward the closet. She threw open the double doors. The light, a sensor, flicked on automatically. It was like illuminating an opulently furnished warehouse: the walls were floor-to-ceiling cedar shelving filled top to bottom with shoes and accessories; the floor was carpeted, and tall full-length mirrors with built-in track bulbs comprised all four corners. In the center of the closet was a three-level brass mechanism that came alive at the push of a button. Lex called it the clothing carousel. It held hundreds of occupied hangers and was organized to accommodate the demands of a busy social life. The bottom level was for daily, funky wardrobe, especially designer jeans: True Religion, 7 for all mankind, Sergio Valente, Habitual, Citizens of Humanity, Chloe, Blue Cult. There were rows of shirts as well, from Morphine Generation and C&C, Heatherette and Itsus. The second level comprised designer pieces suitable for business meetings, power brunches, or evening galas; there were sleek and sophisticated suits by Giorgio Armani, Donatella Versace, agnès b., Roberto Cavalli, Marc Jacobs, Stella McCartney; absolutely gorgeous—and brilliantly outrageous—gowns by John Galliano and Jean Paul Gaultier; Vera Wang evening wear; blazers and coats by Vivienne Westwood; her favorite Issey Miyake Pleats Please skirts.

  The third level was reserved for her own designs. To date, the Triple Threat label included gowns, cocktail dresses, assorted minis, blazers and coats, and various accessories. Her designs had been created using only the finest fabrics. The silks: chiffon and china, crepe de chine, charmeuse, jacquard, noil, douppioni, tussah, fuji, georgette. The wools: superfine merino, medium merino, Bor
der Leicester, Corriedale, cashmere. The leathers: vegetable tanned, chrome tanned, buckskin, suede. Her choice of exquisite fabrics was matched only by the versatility of her designs. There were bright flashy gowns with leopard-print trains and strategically placed handembroidering; elegant but provocative suits with plunging necklines; blazers that revealed just a glimpse of skin beneath the navel; waist-hugging purple and black jeans that flared dramatically at the ankles; several pieces of lingerie that accentuated a young woman's sweet parts; thick leather belts studded with wisps of pink down, and various other accessories. Daring. Unique. Seductive. It was not fashion for the faint of heart.

  She tapped the little beige button on the wall to her right, and the intricate system of spiral-shaped poles came to life. Hundreds of hangers shook in their places. A beep sounded. Then the dozens and dozens of clothes moved down the track and back around, much like a carousel. She only had to press the button to stop the spinning, which brought a selected item right to her fingertips. But she didn't stop it. She stood rooted to the spot, eyeing her collection of clothes, paying special attention to the uppermost level.

  And then she saw it—a space right in the middle of the perfectly organized rows; it wasn't more than six inches wide, but it revealed a big part of the mystery swirling in her head. That was the spot where the Triple Threat cocktail dress had hung. Someone had taken it right off the damn track.

  But who?

  Images flashed in her mind. She had countless friends, both at St. Cecilia's Prep and outside of the school. Girls, guys, slightly older college boys. They had all hung out right here in this very room over the past few months, sporadic little get-togethers that usually ended with drinks and cognac-dipped cigars. Had one of them planned this? Had one of them—or two of them?—stolen the dress when she was in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or rummaging through the forbidden bar in the library? It seemed preposterous. But then again, everything that had happened in the last several hours seemed impossible to believe, and yet the ugly events had unfolded before her very eyes.